Killer Temptation (10 page)

Honouring and defending should be a natural instinct to a
moitié
. He was hers to protect, love and cherish, just as she was his. He’d have done anything and everything for her! Could their bond be broken? In all his life he never heard of such a thing. That no longer mattered. According to her, he’d always be a parasite. Well, that wouldn't do.

Her slender jaw tightened, eyes slanting. Brave? No, foolish. "That’s a shame," he said, tracing his hand up her arm, just over her collarbone. With his thumb, he applied pressure.

Her eyes darted with panic and lolled to the back of her head. "Bastard," she slurred, sinking into an unconscious heap in his arms.

He repositioned a secure arm around her waist, let her slump over like a rag doll against his side, and strolled to his brothers. They put their hands on his shoulders, flashing them from the warm, night air of Tennessee.

****

She was caught in a nightmare, a horrible nightmare refusing to let her wake. How else did she explain seeing the vampire she killed,
alive
and waiting for her outside the teashop? Nightmare-Tristan seemed different. She didn’t recognise the navy blue pants with buckles and straps along the sides, or the obsolete jacket he wore. He looked very steampunk in the gothic-style clothes.

At a fair distance behind him had stood three other vampires also clad in similar apparel. Of course it had been a dream. The first and last time she met him, he hadn’t worn clothes in such fashion. So what did this mean? Did he haunt her nightmares now?

Hell, this is what Amber meant by suffering eternally.

The night she’d killed him, she had gone back to the hotel in tears. Her heart had blackened, as though she’d lost her very soul. She considered the experience normal, since she’d killed another being. According to her cousin, that wasn’t the reason. Amber knew of the term
moitié
and described it as a connection between two souls. Her cousin wasn’t an expert, but she made it her business to know a bit about the other species.

You have a connection with him…now you’ve killed him. Although you hate him, you will feel the pain of losing him.

Amber had been right. Every night since then she cried herself to sleep. The grief of her sister still rumbled within her, but Rachel wasn’t the only reason for the tears. She cried for Tristan too. Not even when she broke things off with Percy had she experienced agonising despair such as this. Whatever connection she and Tristan had, it must have been powerful to cause her this heart-retching grief.

Her eyes fluttered open. A small smile curved her lips at the warmth of the mattress beneath her back. Yes, she lay in bed, which also meant it had all been a dream.

A black and red chiffon canopy draped high above her. Brianna frowned but did not recall purchasing a four-poster bed with a canopy. Had Amber made the purchase while she was at work? She was due for a visit this week to discuss moving in.

“Amber Johnson, I’ll declare you the worst cousin in the world if you’re playing a prank on me.” She sat up, expecting to find the strawberry-blonde standing in her bedroom with a wide grin. Instead, Brianna blinked at the large space, the charcoal-coloured stone ceiling and walls. A red silk sheet slid off her shoulder and pooled at her waist.

She still wore the same cream dress and apron she had on this afternoon at work.
What the hell
? Bile rose in her throat. She kicked as though a dozen spiders covered the unfamiliar sheet, and shuffled back.

Smack
.

“Ouch!” A small throb pulsated at the back of her head and she glanced over her shoulder at the handcrafted Romanesque foliate and interlace pattern etched into the wooden headboard.

She swivelled back around. A squeak that was almost a cry flew from her lips. A blue-grey marble coffee table sat across the room, surrounded by a brass patina camelback sofa with maroon cushions and an identical wingback chair beside it. Every piece of furniture an antique.

Light filled some corners, but not from a lamp or any electrical bulb. A set of four bronze French Louis sconces fitted each wall—similar to the ones her grandmother boasted about at the Antique Roadshow in Chattanooga. Gilded branch-like steel formed the arms of the sconces, appearing as if they spun their way out of the moulded rock wall. Wax from the stem candles dripped over the tree-like arms. She shuddered at the eerie mood it set.

The sound of her shallow breathing thrummed in her ears. Where was her double bed, her simple furniture, her plasma TV? This place didn't even have a TV. "Where am I?" she breathed, rubbing the tender bruise at the base of her neck. Breath caught in her throat. The feel of Tristan’s thumb against her neck in the dream had seemed so real. It was a dream...right? She jumped out of bed, knees wobbling with uncontrollable shudders.

He’s dead
. He could not come back…

Thump. Thump. Thump. Her gaze followed the echo of boots as someone stepped out of a shadowed corner—

Oh, gosh!
Sudden and uncontrollable shudders shook her body. The wild beat of her heart rang in her ears and perspiration dotted her brow as she took in the man standing across from her. A man in the exact attire worn in her dream, a man more alive than dead.

Tristan.
Not Possible
. Perhaps she still remained in the dream. Brianna pinched her wrist, but couldn't wake up. She did it again, harder this time. Blood eased from the two, small half-moon shaped wounds on her wrist.

He strode forward, closing the distance. "What are you doing to yourself?" He took her hand.

So transfixed on his eyes, he raised her arm until his lips hovered over her wrist. His tongue slid out and ran along the cut, eyes fluttering closed as he savoured the taste of her blood. The softness of his lips on her bare skin, and the warm wetness of his tongue forced a moan. He felt so good. Shivers ran from her head down to her toes. Her body hummed in blissful delight.

No! What am I doing? Make him stop!
She pursed her lips. Tristan licked her wound, and she was what? Enjoying this? "Get away from me!" She yanked back her wrist, clutching it to her chest. His hooded eyes studied her. The last time she peered into those green irises they had shone with admiration and devotion. Now they held a dark, ominous promise that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand.

"Don't come any closer," she begged, swallowing hard. Wasn’t it bad enough they stood in this room…alone, she fathomed after her gaze swept their surroundings. The scent of him overtook the burn of candles, the delicious, exotic labdanum and jasmine fragrance. Did all French men smell like this? To her surprise, he did as she asked, taking a step back rather than forward. The scowl on his face, however, confirmed his utter control. If this were a game of poker, she’d lost. She did not hold the winning cards, therefore had no right to give orders.

"Sit!" His tone boomed the command.

Whoa!
If he kept to his side of the room she’d be fine. She didn’t want to take orders, but wasn’t stupid enough to deny him and suffer the consequences. The wingback chair across from the bed caught her attention and she headed to it. After she heard him out, she could leave,
right?

"On the bed, Brianna."

She halted at his brutal voice. He might as well hold a gun to her head. “Why the bed?” He couldn’t be serious.

A jutted jaw and sealed lips confirmed his response.

I had to ask? So much for not angering him further.
He didn’t answer, and she knew better than to wait for one. She padded her way back to the large bed, its red silk sheets an uncomfortable reminder of the night they’d shared. Well, they had sex up against a bookshelf, but the memory of that night was sure as hell still fresh in her mind.

It shouldn’t be
. She must ignore the thought of his touch, his caress, his pulsing erection deep inside her. He killed her sister. He shouldn’t be in her thoughts at all. Nerves raked her entire body as she settled at the edge of the bed, her spine so stiff, she no doubt resembled a mannequin. Entwining her fingers in her lap, she stared at her knuckles and they grew white from the pressure. “I’m in France, aren’t I? In the underground cave you call home?”

He took the spot beside her and she held her breath. “Yes, you are in
Désuet
. I brought you here last night.”

Too close...too fricken close. She could not sit here, like this, with his thighs against hers, his heat invading her already sensitive skin. Brianna stood.

"Sit. Down!" His shout shook the room. One sturdy arm caught her middle, her head bouncing off a silk pillow when thrown against the downy mattress. He bent over her with lightning speed. One knee pressed into her stomach, the other sank into the mattress beside her hip. She couldn't budge even if she tried.

"Now, let’s get back to our earlier conversation.” He leaned in so close, his quick breaths danced over her face. “How exactly did you try to kill me?"

Funny, since she wanted to ask why it hadn't worked. Brianna swallowed.

Just answer the stupid question and get out of here
.

Instead of telling him how, maybe she should tell him why. Would he even care? She doubted it. Besides, it wouldn’t change anything, or bring Rachel back. He was capricious, and spilling the truth made her situation more dangerous. "Does it even matter how?”

“Since it involves me, yes. Tell me.”

Air puffed from her lips. “Fine. I put a spell on the lipstick I wore that night.”

“Ah, the lipstick. That was one of my theories. But, you’re not a witch, Brianna.” A simple shake of his head affirmed his statement. “
Who
created the spell?”

The steeliness in his eyes made her quiver. Why did he want to know? Would he go after Amber if he learned the truth? Perhaps kill her cousin too? Brianna squirmed, as though little insects swarmed beneath her skin. “My turn to ask questions. Why didn’t it work?”

A smile stretched those peach-hued lips, even though that smile never reached his eyes. “There is only one way to kill a mated vampire. Unfortunately for you, trivial little spells don’t work.”

“Didn’t seem silly at the time. I saw you on the floor as I left—”

“I remember,” he cut her off. “As you saw, I suffered. Believe me, did I suffer. The spell did work to some extent, but not to do the job.”

“Oh, well, better luck next time. Doesn’t change the fact you deserved it!"

"
Deserved
?" he ground out.

So much for treading with care. All her backtalk spiralled out of control. But, instead of his wrath, those dark blonde brows creased with confusion. "When all I wanted was your happiness?" he queried in the softest tone, eyes searching her face for an answer.

He should have considered her happiness before killing her sister. Although, he probably did not know it was her sister, since she never introduced them that night. Still, what gave him the right to kill anyone? Just how many innocent people had he killed for that matter? Even if she told him, and by some miracle he experienced a sense of remorse, it would not bring back God knows how many others he’d killed. No doubt there were others prior to Rachel, and would be others in the future. "You want to make me happy? Let me out of here. Set me free."

He shook his head. "You misunderstood. I said
wanted
, meaning that's not the case now,
ma
douceur
."

Oh boy, she’d really done a number on herself this time. "What are you on about?" He might want revenge, but to actually kill her?
Her
, his
moitié
…or so he said. Amber had said vampires cherish their mates above all else. So, why did the livid look in his eyes frighten and make her question her safety?

"I'm saying you're not going anywhere. You are my mate and you will stay with me. Whether that makes you happy or not, I don't care." His French accent became more pronounced with his ominous tone.

“I could never stay with you. I’ll never accept myself as your mate!” Tears pricked her eyes, and she could not swallow past the lump in her throat. He leaned in close. So close, their lips almost touched. His eyes darkened as he peered into her.

“You will…and soon.” Removing his leg from her stomach, he stormed out the door, slamming it shut.

A second later a purposeful click rang out. Bastard, he’d locked her in.

Chapter 6

No windows. Not a damn one. For the hundredth time, Brianna strode around the room, checking several adjacent doors that only led to a bathroom, a bar room, and an office. The stone interior and ancient furniture imprinted every corner of her mind. Her eyes grew heavy, body weak with fatigue, or, maybe from walking around in circles?

"Damn this!" She slumped on the bed, defeat weighing heavy on her shoulders. Unable to tell if it was day or night, only certain hours had flown by since Tristan locked her in.

Will I ever get out?
And what about everyone back home? They must be worried, wondering what happened. Perhaps, the family were on top of this, tracking her down with witchcraft. Was there such a spell? She couldn’t recall any incantation of the sort. Damn, if only she had paid more attention. Inadequate as she felt around them, she tended to butt out of their business.

A low rattle made her turn toward the exit. The door clicked and swung open. It was Tristan, but her stare passed him and landed on the hallway beyond the threshold. A new setting she hadn’t seen, a glimpse of freedom. Should she barge past and run for her life?

He shut the door before she could act, denying her chance. In one hand he held a tray covered with a silver dome lid.